One of the World’s tallest buildings, Taipei 101,
which rises up 500 meters into midnight fun,
rang in the New Year with its giant fireworks display,
launched from the tower, in a giant showering array.
In hoping to decrease its carbon footprint in the sky,
there were just half of 2018’s fireworks in flight,
their flashing but 300 seconds, 16,000 bursts,
a pyrotechnic drop in 2019’s fireworks.
The leaping coloured lights arced off the building’s glassy sides
the moment when the countdown clock’s big one dropped

out of sight.

Si Celebrade Wu is a poet of independent, New Millennial Taiwan.

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The Rise of Digital Authoritarianismby Esca Webuilder

Red China’s digital authoritarianism
is threatening democracy across the global realm.
Not only are the Chinese crushing freedom in their land;
but they’re exporting their extensive censorship command.
While China is by far the worst, it too has company,
like Turkey, Syria, Iran, and Ethiopia.
Estonia and Iceland, Canada and Germany
are countries where the access to the Internet ‘s most free.
But why is not America up at the top of these?
Surveillance now is happening by US companies.

Esca Webuilder is a poet of the Internet. He recently read the Freedom House report from which some of this information comes.

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The Captive Caesarby Aedile Cwerbus

Though it was many years ago, millennia, in fact,
it seems, like yesterday, when Caesar’s ship-trip was attacked.
He had gone off to Rhodes to study rhetoric, it seems,
with Apllonius Molo; the Roman had his dreams.

When suddenly some pirates overtook his vessel’s flight,
he was made captive for a ransom, when he could not fight.
Though he behaved, as Plutarch says, more prince than prisoner,
he was a rather vile, wily, cruel customer.

Like Cicero, who’d also gone to Rhodes to study too,
he scribbled verses, wrote out speeches, entertained the crew,
and said that he would crucify them after he got loose.
They laughed at him; he seemed not more than but a honking goose.

They did not understand this man, for once he was set free,
he raised a force, surprised the corsairs, in a ruthless spree,
recovered all the ransom cash, and kept his promise flat
he’d crucify each one of them, which he did, just like that.

Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of ancient Rome.

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John Edensor Littlewood (1885-1977)by Euclidre Base

He lived the closing eight years of the 19th century
in beautiful South Africa, by mountains and the sea.
He tackled Riemann’s famed hypothesis without success,
but learned a lot along the way, and did not have regrets.
In war he served the Royal Garrison Artillery,
improving anti-aircraft tables of trajectories.
He focused in the main on classical analysis,
exploring many areas within its palaces,
upon the Riemann zeta function, inequalities,
on series theory, and in other specialities.

He was one of those who made use of analytic tools,
like his compatriot G. Hardy, J. E. Littlewood.
Together they began collabourating famously
upon numerical partitions, almost namelessly;
though he was not a pseudonym for Hardy’s poorer work,
who thought none could command such grand technique, insight and pow’r.
They had four axioms they followed in their partnership,
write openly, be unobliged, discount all ownership.
They did not care if each of them both thought out the same thought;
in fact, it was preferable if they indeed did not.

Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematicians and mathematics.

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The ScopIb Claus Weeder

I saw him sitting at the table with the feisty men;
he was so slim, he did not seem like he was one of them.
It looked like they were drinking mead upon a wooden bench.
It was a mighty thirst that they were trying there to quench.
Among the scoffing, scolding warriors, he, the scop, shaped verse,
and rose to entertain them with his sturdy, strong-stressed words.
He’d try to meet those Vying Kings with equal force and strength.
He’d ride those graceful, long, and narrow nights with all his length.
He’d sing old pagan legends of the hard, Germanic tribes,
and eulogize abusive guys with jesting, jeers and jibes.

Ib Claus Weeder is a poet of Denmark and Danish traditions. Scop (pronounced “shope”) is the Anglo-Saxon word for poet, the “shaper” of words.

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Odin’s Runic Rhymeby Lars U. Ice Bedew

I know I hung upon a windy tree—huge Yggdrasil—
for nine long nights, there wounded by a spear that did not kill.
I, dedicated to myself, myself, o, Odin, on
that tree which no man knows from whence its roots run to the dawn.
No bread did they once give me, nor a drink from any horn,
as I faced downward, peering, fearing, frightened and forlorn.
I saw the runes—futhorc—and stretched to take them up at once.
O, screaming, yes I took them up. O, they were quite a bunce.
And then I bounced back from that place, and fell to heaven’s hall,
Valhalla, where I drink the mead of poetry and loll.

O’er Norwegian Mountainsby Lars U. Ice Bedew

Ah, o’er Norwegian mountains standing cold beside the sea,
Aurora Borealis flies through blue skies briskily.
Its bright lights in that Northern Realm, Ultimate Thule’s home,
across the starry heavens in great sweeping swirls, roam.
Against the backdrop of the cosmic vastness overhead,
it moves about, like dancing ghosts, released souls from the dead.
Like giants’ breaths from Nordic gods in cold December nights,
it flows out in gigantic atmospheric rippled sights.
The solar wind here interferes with Earth’s magnetic fields,
and in the polar regions these displays are what it yields.

Lars U. Ice Bedew is a poet of Scandanavia. One of his favourite works of Norse literature is Den engelske lods (The English Pilot) by Henrik Wergeland (1808-1845).

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On Energyby Ira “Dweeb” Scule

The processes surrounding us, including life itself,
are governed by the constant flow of energy, rife elf,
transforming from one state into another, evermore,
not disappearing but emerging in a diff’rent form.
Hence, energy, it seems, is not created or destroyed,
but always is conserved; the universe is not a void.
Our state of breathing and consuming is a cycle of
transferring energy, from being, seeing, hearing, love.
Inside the sun is a conversion of mass energy
into the heat and movement needed for life’s inner sea.

Ira “Dweeb” Scule is a poet of science.

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Blue Light Engulfs the New York City Skyby Dic Asburee Wel

A power plant explosion caused an eerie blast of blue,
a chilling glow across New York which flickered, piercing through
low-hanging clouds. Was this a ship of distant aliens?
a UFO up in the sky, its brilliance salient?
No, it was not an alien invasion come to roost
upon New York, in shades of radiant and blinding blues.
It simply was a trans-for-mer—a boom, a bang, and flash—
exploding out in Queens that made that massive rushing gash.
There were no injuries Con Edison’s spokesperson said,
as they were still evaluating power outages.

Dic Asburee Wel is a poet of New York City.

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The Alienby Cawb Edius Reel

He came out of a spaceship to the stage of Washington.
This happened some time just before year 1951.
His name was Claedu I-se Werb; he was an alien;
decidedly austere and sleek, not bacchanalian.
He stepped before a golden robot towering above;
he wore a silver, circled outfit, from boot up to glove.
He seemed to be a wise, tall stranger standing in the hall,
and yet so distant, as if he weren’t anything at all.
Although he seemed to be American—that he was not.
His image passed across the monitor, and, then, was gone.

Cawb Edius Reel is a poet recording various bits of information in the cosmic data storm that swirls about our lives.

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The Bridgeby Ubs Reece Idwal

The steel cantilever bridge beside Astoria,
continuous, the longest truss in North America,
is fourteen miles from the mouth of the Columbia,
four miles long, connecting Washington and Oregon.
So many dawns the seagulls hover over its domain,
conserving energy, absorbing heat from concrete lanes,
while hundreds rest upon the Desdemona sands from air,
and dozens meet their deaths upon the busy thoroughfare.
The unchained waters of the river flow past ships and boats,
while fishermen compete with seals, the sun, reflecting, floats.

Ubs Reece Idwal is a poet of the Pacific Northwest. When he used to live in the area, he remembers how he used to cross that bridge on early Saturday mornings.

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Wet and in Lovefor Maiaby Wic E. Ruse Blade

Over me now a smear of dreary gray rain clouds,
and somebody has stolen my black umbrella;
but I can’t feel mis’rable, though I’m wet—doused.
I’m happy, happier than that lucky fella
who got my brolly, simply because I have You,
You my lovely and wonderful Cinderella,
who combed buildings for Me, dedicated and true,
devoted, Thou, my bonny and beautiful lass.
Again, my Darling—it is You, yes, who came through,
and was there to give Me all, to take up the task
when the time called for it. What need have I for shrouds?
Just let Me be wet, wet and in love with You—Yes.